


"When you have a bad day, a really bad day.."

by Shaleschnueffler



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bad Days, Bad Luck, Gen, Random & Short, it was the summer of 2001, rainy monday, unlucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 14:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14451078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaleschnueffler/pseuds/Shaleschnueffler
Summary: He has had a bad day.A really bad day.And he has tried, he has really tried, to stick to his own speakings and treat the world better than it has treated him. But at some point, even the most optimistic person gives up on the day, because no matter how hard you try, people are simply ungrateful, particularly on a stormy Monday.Or: A day of Patrick's single life in a small apartment somewhere around Chicago.





	"When you have a bad day, a really bad day.."

**Author's Note:**

> Hello guys?
> 
> uhh...yeah, this is my first and probably last work here on ao3, I just kinda felt like uploading it. Don't go too hard on me, since English is not my first language.  
> Also, the whole thing is a little weird and messed up. I've written it almost exactly a year ago and I mean, it's Patrick's birthday today so why not share this little thingy here? I didn't really look it over since I finished writing it, and I most likely won't anytime soon sooo..enjoy, I guess?  
> Idk anymore xD

It has begun quite ordinarily, with the rising sun's rays mercilessly hitting his closed eyes, causing him to wake from the more or less deep slumber he has been in until now. It annoys him once again, being woken by the pitiless sun but he knows that it's his own fault since he is used to forgetting to shut the curtains whenever he goes to bed. It's mostly dark when he does so that there is no light or some such to remind him of pulling them closed. If he didn't stay up all night till - sometimes - three in the morning, he would probably remember to keep the light of the day out until he's woken by the alarm on the nightstand, or even wakes up all by himself, which happens rather rarely, or, better said, almost never, because his sleeping pattern was a complete mess to say the least.

Yawning and stretching, he sits up correctly and lets his eyes dart around in the room that he is proud to call his own. The whole apartment he lives in is his own, although he could - theoretically - purchase a whole house with the money he surely has from being a mid-popular singer in an alternative band.

With another deep yawn, the blonde finally decides to get up from the bed, that will most likely keep being a mess until Patrick puts on some new sheets. Whether he will fold them correctly after putting them on, only heaven knows, and maybe himself once the situation rolls on.

The loose shirt he is wearing is revealing his shoulder and collarbone, and combined with the sweatpants he almost seems like someone with a huge hangover after an even bigger party, how he notices with a look into the mirror.

The singer has his morning routine too, and well, it begins with looking at his own appearance after waking up in the morning (or sometimes in the noon, or afternoon, it depends). He tears his eyes from his own reflection and walks over to his closet, fingers brushing against light wood as he pulls it open it and leans against the piece of furniture that's most likely the only one that almost touches the ceiling.  
The man's blue eyes keep scanning the objects in the closet while he seems to not move a muscle at all, standing completely still. Patrick himself doesn't know why he does it, but he's sometimes just too lazy to even shuffle through the clothes he has, only to take out anything that fits together in the end anyway. In music videos or for photo shootings, though, he naturally searches longer, often even goes shopping just to have something accurate, as long as the producers don't just hand him something he has to wear.

After what has seemed like an eternity but has only been less than a minute, he moves his hand forward and grabs a light gray and black t-shirt, some new underwear and a pair of gray jeans, planning on taking his fedora and a leather jacket with him later, once he leaves the apartment.  
Normally, it wouldn't take longer than 10 minutes for an adult man who lives by himself to dress up, but Patrick takes his time, pausing whenever he has put something off or on, and somewhere between putting on his shirt and buttoning his jeans, he gets distracted by a buzzing sound coming from the nightstand. He reaches out for his phone that threatens to fall off the small table because of the slight vibrations and manages to grab it without accidentally knocking over the white guitar by the nightstand because of his laziness that keeps him from moving far. Still shirtless, he unlocks the still buzzing phone, only to notice that he isn't called, but messaged almost constantly. Raising an eyebrow at the sudden storm of texts, he doesn't even consider that it could be something important and goes on with unlocking and looking for the source of messages casually.

Once he has found it, the tired beam in his eyes is swapped with confusion as he tries to make out the meaning of the spam.

 

patrick?

cant come to the recordings today cuz' of fever

guess we have to push it to next week, aight?

u can try doin smthng already and ill record back vocals and bass later if you wanna start today

hey?

patrick?

hey stump

cmon, pls

its important!

u cant tell me ur still sleepin

its already 1pm patrick...

even if ur asleep, you never have your phone muted

it mustve woken you up already

hey

patrick cmon

why r u always available but not NOW?

 

With a sigh, he flops onto the messy bed, the phone still in his tight grip as he types in a message that all in all only says that it's alright and that Pete shall get well fast. Not because of the recordings but because he cares about his friends and band members.  
Patrick keeps laying there for a good five minutes before he forces his body to get up and ready already. He quickly and a bit clumsily pulls the selected shirt over his head and fiddles with the collar and the lower parts of the piece of clothing so that it looks at least a bit as if he had put effort into choosing the clothes.

The pants were buttoned fast as well and with a sigh of relief, he reaches out for the doorknob for the first time on this truly wonderful day to open the door and leave the room. His feet, having gotten used to his routine months or even years ago, automatically carry him to the small kitchen where he's quick to drop two slices of toast into the small machine by the oven and pushes down the button, waiting for the bread to jump up once it's ready. Mentally preparing himself for the sudden sound that will, 100 percent sure, cut through the silence in the apartment that's only filled by Patrick's quiet whistling, he opens the refrigerator to take the butter out, only to notice that he hasn't any left.  
With another deep and unusually long sigh - its only purpose was to drown out the toaster's sound - he turns again and walks over to the table to sit, waiting patiently for his breakfast.  
Thinking about it, the singer could've made lunch as well, since it was already past noon and- CHUNK.

Despite all the effort he has tried to put into not to jerk at the loud sound he hates, he does it anyway and his heartbeat goes up like hell.  
Quietly swearing at himself for always flinching whenever his toast's ready, Patrick stands to get the two slices.

And oh what a miracle, shutting the curtains isn't the only thing he has forgotten that was important for having a calm morning, or noon, or whatever it was. He isn't quite sure when he has been woken by the annoying sun anyway. He just knows that the huge fireball in the sky has left almost immediately after violently tearing him from his dreams.

Patrick eyes the toast suspiciously and tries to remember when he has put the toaster to level 4 out of 5, considering that he normally has it on 2 or 2,5...Considering that he couldn't think of ANYONE who EVER puts his toaster on a level that's higher than 3,5 because everything above makes the kitchen tool spit out something that's blacker more black or at least dark browner than anything Patrick would eat without protests.  
But a slightly black burnt slice of baked good is nothing that could take a Stump's hopes for a good day away!  
He takes a bite of the toast with an encouraged beam in his blue eyes before he decides to leave the second slice on the sideboard for...Eating it later (throwing it into the trash).

He could've sworn he has put the key to his apartment onto the sideboard in the small hallway connecting almost every room. It's a rather small apartment he lives in, but Patrick just has a grudge against too big rooms with way too few pieces of furniture and since he doesn't have many things he needs to stuff away anyway, he enjoys the comfort of the small rooms and the almost to say tight corridor.  
But although there isn't that much space, Patrick still somehow manages to lose everything that's not at least 2 meters high, long or wide; or attached to one specific spot, like most of the furniture, his jackets, and his beloved fedora.  
Right now though he is about to drown in despair because no matter what he does or where he looks, he can't find this damned key.

It takes him a whole hour to finally give up, but when he does, he REALLY does. He has already reached out for the black leather jacket and put it on, deciding to call the key service later and lie to them straightly, claiming that he has forgotten his key inside - which wouldn't be a complete lie, only with the difference that he just hasn't been able to find it and has given up on the search after about 70 pathetic minutes of shuffling through all the drawers and shelves he has found. Not many. But that doesn't matter, right? Fact is, that he hasn't found it yet and doesn't plan on looking for the damn thing any longer.

With another sigh, he grabs the also black fedora and first doesn't notice the unnatural weight on one of its sides, until he turns it in his hands, looking at himself in one of the three mirrors that can be found in his apartment, the one in the hallway, and something drops to the ground with a sound that could be described best as a jingle. The object falls onto his right foot and Patrick instantly feels relieved of wearing shoes already, because he assumes it would've hurt if the stupid keys would've right hit his feet.

Placing the hat on top of his dark blonde hair, he kneels down to pick up the since long missed item(s) with another sigh, this one with way more annoyance than the ones before. A look at the watch that is placed around his left wrist tells the musician that it's already 2:50 and that he should get going now if he still wants to grab lunch or at least a coffee on the way to...Wherever he will go.  
After leaving the apartment, having gotten all ready, Patrick locks the door behind himself and leans against it for a short period, thinking over his plans of going out, getting a coffee and maybe lunch or a piece of cake, should he get to the cafe too late, because he isn't quite sure whether to leave the building anymore.

He is awake since around 12 or 12:30, somewhen around then, meaning about two hours. And in these two hours, so much shit has happened that he is almost afraid of going out.  
Fuck it, he thinks and walks towards the staircase.  
Descending them, he only trips once before he arrives on the last floor safely and opens the door. Slight rain hits the asphalt of the street but Patrick just shrugs it off. As long as it is only ever so slightly, he is completely fine with some drops of water hitting his fedora and the jacket's leather, as well as his face, or his whole body and clothing in general. But he is soon confronted with a heavier wind tearing at his clothes, as he walks off to the side to walk close to the shops' windows and walls in order to keep him safe from the strengthening rain. Before things even have the opportunity to turn and make Patrick regret the whole decision of getting up and walking through the streets, he enters a cafe he already knows. He has passed some coffee shops already but has never walked inside because he has been looking for something familiar where he is able to be 100 percent sure that the coffee is good.

Curious about the time, Patrick forces his phone out of his pants' pocket and unlocks it within a second to have a look.

3:41 pm and Patrick Stump has been trotting around in the city for almost an hour but that's not what he's been thinking about when he's first thought of checking the time - it is way too late for lunch so that he reaches out for the cake-card instead. Once he has put it down, a waitress Patrick has never seen before approaches his table in a hinder corner, and he has to say that she looks quite excited. Oh, come on, not THAT again...!  
But hey, guess what, it happens again, and Patrick has to smile for a selfie and sign a piece of paper as well as a bag before he is even able to give up his orders. The rather young woman runs off pretty fast and leaves the blonde alone to his thoughts again. The rain has increased and the droplets against the window he sits by create an almost rhythmic sound that causes Patrick to shut his eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses for a moment, his chin resting on his right hand.

As fast as the calm moment has come, as fast is it gone again when the waitress returns with a slice of raspberry cake and a coffee which the singer accepts gratefully with a nod. The woman smiles and Patrick has serious troubles to tell apart flirting and beaming because of happiness right now.  
He decides not to think about her anymore and eyes the cake on the white plate in front of him. It almost looks like it was violently ripped from the whole cake earlier, more than cut off. Reaching out for a fork or a spoon or anything, he also notices that there is nothing on the table but a flower in an almost too fancy pot, a plate with a slice of abused raspberry cake and a steaming hot cup filled with compellingly smelling, light brown liquid. He lifts his hand just so slightly, hoping that anyone finds him in the corner where he has pulled back to, - but nobody does. God damn it, what kind of stupid prank is this today?

He takes a nip of his coffee as a different waitress crosses his sight and he looks up into her face - finally a person he recognizes! Patrick informs her about his problem and she snickers before walking towards the counter to get a fork, telling Patrick to stand up and walk these three meters by himself the next time.

embarrassing  
embarrassing  
embarrassing

His coffee has gone cold by now and when he takes a sip, he cringes all so slightly. Cold coffee is disgusting but he manages to choke the whole thing down before getting the taste out of his mouth by starting to chew on the slice of cake that still looks massacred but tastes incredibly good anyway. A piece falls from Patrick's fork into his lap and he's suddenly relieved that he didn't choose the orange cake earlier because THAT would've left some beautiful traces.

Soon after he has finished and because he's a gentleman (or at least friendly), he picks up the plate and the empty cup, throws latter into the trash bin and puts the other item down at the counter, paying and giving two euros as a tip, like so often.  
He turns his head to check on how the weather is going and sighs when he has to notice that it still pours but he has to get home at some point and after spending one and a half hours in this café, he seriously needs some time alone in his apartment, maybe with another -hot- coffee and some TV or playing guitar or piano. Although all veins and cells, and everything in his body tells him not to leave this building because he's safe here and outside the door, many problems could linger.  
He leaves anyway, trying to stay by the windows and walls once again to stay safe from the rain. As he reaches a bus station, Patrick immediately feels relieved and walks out of the building's safety to check on whether a bus would arrive soon or not. There is no schedule, only a bare stake that's completely wet - like Patrick is. His clothing's soaked and he is quick to hide from the rain on one of the seats at the bus station. His hand reaches out to take his phone from his pocket again so that he can look up the scheduled bus lines on the internet but  
The world treats him shitty today  
And although he has always said that, if the world treats you bad, then you should try to treat it better, he feels despair, annoyance and hatred creeping up his spine.  
Going out today, NO!, standing up today, has been the worst idea EVER.

He had gotten his phone back after he has run all the way back to the cafe where a man with blonde hair - Dave - has handed it back to him so that he could leave now. Finally. Completely. Hopefully.  
Patrick even checks the coffee shop again, just to be sure that he has left NOTHING, and after he has reassured that nothing is left behind, he finally leaves and makes his way towards the bus station once again where he flops down onto one of the uncomfortable seats and leans his head against the window for a few seconds before taking out his phone and unlocking it. He finds the schedule rather quickly but it doesn't help him at all. 6:26 pm and Patrick Stump has just missed the bus. Thanks, world.

One hour, one whine, two hands running through dark blonde hair in desperation, three yelling guys and 5 busses that passed by later, Patrick's line finally arrived and he gets up with a long sigh of relief as he trots towards the bus and enters it, stepping inside and telling the bus driver where he wants to go. The other man seems rather annoyed and the singer is almost sure he has just heard a grumbled "the poor seats get soaked..." From him but since he's only almost sure, and also follows his "treat the world better than it treats you"-rule, he doesn't say anything and tries to come up with a smile. He pays after dropping his money once in his hurry and his tired legs carry him further to the back of the almost empty bus where he leans against the grab pole (only to not wet the seats in order to not get on the driver's nerves) and leans his head back, letting out a sigh. Once he is home, he will just throw off the uncomfortably soaked clothes that stick tightly to his skin, lay down in bed and close his eyes to enjoy the warm comfort of the messy sheets against his bare skin.

The bus passes his station.  
Thank you, bus driver.

Patrick just wants to die right now. All the shitty things he's gone through, he even has fought the urge to just sit down on one of the seats just because he hasn't wanted the damn driver to get even grumpier than he is already and what does he get back? An at least 25 minutes walk through the rain until he gets home!  
Great.  
The singer feels like giving up on his own rule right now, and so he does, sits down and glares at the driver in the front furiously over the black rims of his glasses, until the bus finally comes to a stop at the next station and Patrick jumps out of the bus, into the rain, and when he passes two drunk guys sitting by the sidewalk and joking about him, he shows them the middle finger without even thinking about it.

30 minutes later and Patrick Stump finally arrives at home. Thank God he has found the key earlier, otherwise, he'd have to call the key service right now and he isn't sure whether they would have survived the evening.  
But before he opens the door to the apartment, he takes care of something.

7:17 pm and Patrick Stump enters his apartment, puts his black jacket onto a hanger and the fedora onto the sideboard, right next to the keys before he puts his shoes next to the small closet and walks into the kitchen, turning the toaster to level 2 and quickly putting the fresh butter he's gotten from his neighbor into the fridge. Grabbing the cold toast by the counter and taking a bite as dinner, Patrick shuffles towards his bedroom, shuts the curtains, turns off his phone and takes off his clothes to put on a comfortable pair of sweatpants and a warm t-shirt.

He is tempted to turn on the TV and check on what's to watch, but he decides against it. He knows that the signal might not treat him well, and before he loses his patience once again and fails miserably at treating the world better than it treated him, he rather goes to bed instead of raging.

As soon as the warm blanket is wrapped around him, he melts into the bed.

7:21 pm and Patrick Stumps falls asleep with a smile on his lips that says nothing other than "I'm fucking ready for another bad morning, you cruel, cruel world!".


End file.
